So he'd done nothing to counter the accusations leveled. That had been a mistake.
Another mistake was thinking it would involve only his practice. He should have seen that his professional obloquy would have a ripple effect on his private life as well. He'd always separated the practice and the family, but there was no way of insulating the latter from the ravages upon the former, not with an assault of this magnitude.
He hurt for Lisa.
"But what could I have done, Lisa? What can I do to make this better?
' "I don't know, something. You could plea bargain or whatever they call it. Something, anything to make them shut up and get off our backs."
"Plea bargain? " He was stunned. "You don't plea bargain when you're innocent." Lisa tore her hands from his and ran upstairs, screaming, "Thanks!
Thanks for nothing! My life is over! And all because of you! I might as well have AIDS! " Diana followed her, glaring back at him. "She's right, you know. You could have done something! " This was vintage Lisa, always taking everything too hard, seeing everything in the worst light. With her history, though, that kind of outburst could not be laid off to hyperbole and histrionics.
They increased her therapy sessions and kept an eye on her day and night. But a week later, when it became clear, at least to Lisa, that she and Kenny were through for good, she dug out a hoard of old pills she had squirreled away over the yeats, a potentially lethal combination of antidepressants like Elavil, Parnate, Desyrel, Sinequan, Norpramin, Tofranil, Nardil, and lithium, and took them all.
And then she fell. Over the railing. Down to the hard, cold foyer floor. Where Duncan found her.
And then she died. And Diana blamed him.
And Duncan blamed himself.
He had never realized what grief could mean, never imagined he could mourn the loss of another human being the way he mourned Lisa. And he knew it was all his fault . . . all his fault . . .
Until the audits and investigations were completed. Then he knew who was really to blame.
The rasorial crew of Medicare auditors finished their quest for any improprieties that might grease his path to the gibbet, always in full view of his steadily diminishing patient flow, and the worst they could come up with were a few errors in the coding of certain procedures.
The quality assurance examiners found no cases, not one! , of unnecessary surgery. Every single procedure met or exceeded recommended . . . .
Indications.
No apology, though, from the Guidelines committee and their fugleman, McCready. They'd moved on to other hatchet jobs.
Except for a few loyal patients who wrote letters on Duncan's behalf, no one had come to his defense throughout the entire ordeal. His colleagues had kept their heads down. Even some A.M.A paper-pusher was quoted as saying the amount Duncan billed was "excessive." Duncan learned the meaning of alone.
The long-delayed reports finally got forwarded to the State Board of Medical Examiners. The "coding irregularities" did not result in any net gain on Duncan's part, actually he lost money, but still he was issued a warning to be more careful in the future. Since there was no evidence of fraud or negligence, or of performing even a single unnecessary procedure, -the board exonerated him.
But where was that publicized?
In a small paragraph buried deep in the Banner. But the Washington Post, which had broken the original story that started this nightmare, never mentioned it.
The public flogging was over, but it had dragged on too long. Referral patterns had changed. Generalists who used to feed his practice had found new surgeons.
His practice was ruined. He'd been held up to national scorn and then cleared. But his reputation remained tainted.
He could have shrugged it off, all of it, if Lisa still were alive and Diana still behind him.
But Lisa was gone. Dear, dear Lisa, who left without a goodbye, blaming him for all her pain.
Diana, too, blamed him. And soon their marriage went the way of his practice.
But he wasn't to blame. He'd done nothing wrong. Couldn't she see that? It was the committee . . . that damned Guidelines committee.
McCready and his claque of pharisaical louts had plundered his life and then casually '. moved on.
Duncan had actually entertained thoughts of buying an assault rifle and blowing them all away. But then McCready had died, and the Guidelines committee disbanded, leaving Duncan with no target for the monstrous, smoldering mass of rage, coiled and writhing within him.
But he got over it, got past it, to use the current phrase. After all, he still had his son, Brad had stuck by him from beginning to end.
And Oliver, of course. Steadfast, sedulous Oliver. Without them .
.
.
Well, he just might have shoved a gun barrel in his mouth. So he started anew, new state, new specialty, new persona.
And everything seemed fine until the president revived the Guidelines committee. It was then that Duncan realized that the rage had never gone away. Like a cancer, it had metastasized throughout his system until it now lived in every tissue.
- And still he might have controlled it if so many committee members hadn't begun looking around for someone to enhance their appearance for the heavy TV exposure they expected . . . and come to him, because he had the implants . . .
The irony should have been delicious.
Make me loo/2 good for the tameras . . .
He stopped himself from hurling his glass across the room. No sense in wasting good scotch. So now five of the original seven were gone. McCready from natural causes, four Duncan's doing, and two left . . . the two youngest who were unlikely to seek out cosmetic surgery.
Almost time to call it quits. The new committee was in complete disarray, The Guidelines act moribund. One more strike, the biggest of all, and it would be dead.
Just like Lisa.
And he wouldn't have to worry about Gin interfering with the last target. She'd be too off balance after today. Wouldn't even know about that patient. She'd be home, enjoying a day off.
And then he'd quit. Flush the TPD and wait for his moment to dissolve the last implant.
Which reminded him, he had to move the TPD. He'd left it in his top drawer in case Gin went for another look. Now that the games were over, he'd have to find a new hiding place.
He lifted his glass.
Par, Regina.
Mind your own business and we'll all live happily ever after.
If not . . .
Gin lay in her bed in the dark, listening to the tick of the old mantle clock from the other room. An awful night alone, grappling with her doubt, her confusion. But she'd passed through that fire, emerging with a new perspective.
She hadn't imagined this. For a while there she'd been dazed and unsure, rocked back on her heels by the way everything had gone so wrong today. But she was on her feet again.
It's not over, Duncan, she told the darkness. You're smart . . . no, you're brilliant. Somehow you got way ahead of me on this. You probably think you've won. But I know what I saw, and I know what I know.
This is not over.
THE WEEK OF OCTOBER SUNDAY GINA WAS GOING TO FIND OUT EVERYTHING ABOUT Duncan.
She started her engine as Duncan's black Mercedes pulled to a stop at the end of his street. She couldn't park outside his house, or even on his block. Duncan lived in an ultraexclusive Chevy Chase neighborhood of large, stately, Federal-style homes on half-acre lots in which her little red Sunbird would stick out like a garbage scow at the Potomac Yacht Club. But one of the hallmarks of the neighborhood's exclusivity was limited access. The brick-pillared entrance opened onto a secondary road near a small, upscale strip mall. Gin had camped in the mall's parking lot most of yesterday and all of this morning and no one had bothered her.